Migration
by rizahawkaye
Summary: Roy's been executed, but Riza's story has yet to end. She's said her goodbyes to her Führer, and to the past, as she looks to the future with Briggs. Edward, however, has a message to send. (Sequel/companion piece to "Cessation.")


Riza had been here before. She sat with her head in her hands, staring at her feet as people bustled about around her. Reporters lined the benches to her right and left and civilians crowded around in waves outside the execution grounds. Riza could hear their voices echoing around her, engulfing her in their misplaced anger and disturbing excitement.

She only looked at Roy once. They called his name, repeated his sentence to the crowd, and pushed him onto his knees below her. Everyone disappeared as noise became static in Riza's mind. She zoned in on her Führer's face just for a moment, and he gave her a crooked smile. His eyes crinkled, her heat beat painfully in her chest. She whipped her chin down as she heard the rifles pop; the echo of Roy's death carried over the roar of the witnesses and swirled around inside her until she doubled over to vomit on her boots.

She sees the blood he left behind in her dreams.

.

.

.

 **10 Years Later**

"Major General Hawkeye," A Briggs soldier approached Riza's office, his heavy coat dusted with ice. "You have a package, sir."

Riza turned her head, admittedly intrigued. "Who's it from?" She asked.

"Edward Elric," the soldier answered. He threw his thumb over his shoulder and continued. "It's waiting for you with General Armstrong."

Riza sat back in her chair and ran her fingers through her short, thinning hair. She clicked a button on her receiver and exhailed into it. "I'm going on break," she told whoever was on the other line. "If the President or his secretary calls please remind them that Congress is not to make a move without my and the General's say. We'll be phoning them within the next 24 hours."

"Yes, sir," a man responded.

Riza pushed herself out of her chair with force she was becoming increasingly used to having to exert. She'd been working at Briggs since the day of Roy's execution, and the physical demands of such a place had played their roles in her arthritis and inability to steady her hands. She sometimes wondered if she should be handing her occupational therapy bills to General Armstrong, but what the General had given her went far beyond the price of inflammation in her joints.

"Your courage outweighs that of any I've seen," Olivier had told her 10 years ago. She'd called for Colonel Hawkeye not five minutes after Roy's body had been dragged through the dirt and covered with a thin sheet. She'd instructed her men to get the Colonel new boots and a glass of water before dropping, "I'm promoting you to Brigadier General and reassigning you to Briggs."

"You're hated here in Central, but at Briggs we can work safely to keep Mustang's dreams alive."

Riza had never looked back from that day. She kept no photos of Roy where she could easily see them, and she didn't mention him in her speeches or reports, but she moved forward with his light shining in her eyes. Every time she and the General sat down to discuss the movements of the country, they had Roy in their minds.

"What would Roy do?" Olivier would ask Riza every time, and every time Riza would respond with, "He would trust us to decide."

"Hawkeye," Olivier didn't look up from her paperwork as Riza shuffled into the office. "It's over there." She pointed with her pen to a small, square box sitting on a chair in the corner of the room. Riza's heart began to skid around between her ribs as her fingers touched the cool cardboard. Pieces of ice were melting onto her finger tips while she peeled thick tape off one layer at a time.

Her breath hitched in her chest when she pulled from the box a hardback text.

 _A Complete History of Amestris_

"What is it?" Olivier asked, lifting her eyes from her papers.

"A textbook," Riza breathed. She picked a note off the cover and read it aloud. "'Page 611.'" Her hands shook more than she was used to as she fumbled through the pages while trying to balance the heavy text in her hand. She didn't know where her apprehension was coming from, but something inside her was pressing for this page to be found.

She hit it and inhaled sharply.

Page 611.

She ran her fingers over it tenderly, bit her lip to keep from whimpering out his name.

There, covering the entire page, was a portrait of Roy. His hair combed back, his face freshly shaven, Riza recalled every detail of this day in her mind. His professional photo was added to the small wall of Führers who had occupied the highest position of power in Amestris. He had complained that day about the heat, about the black coat soaking him in his own sweat. Riza had chastised him for acting childish, and he had quieted long enough to sit and look stoic for a picture that would be ripped from the wall only a handful of years later.

"Hawkeye?" Olivier pressed, noticing the quiver in Riza's form.

"It's Roy," Riza said. There was a blurb at the foot of the page, just below the picture. Riza tried to keep her voice steady as she read it to Olivier, "'Führer Roy Mustang was the driving force behind the abolishment of the military state and establishment of democracy. Though his involvement in the Ishbalan genocide is widely criticized, historians almost unanimously believe that his work on the Promise Day and in the east have earned him an everlasting spot in history.'"

Riza hadn't noticed her tears until they were dripping off her nose onto the page. She rubbed her thumb over Roy's face and imagined how he would have reacted to such recognition.

"It's about time my excellence be pointed out," he'd say with a cocky grin. Riza would roll her eyes at him and he'd amend himself with, "I still have so much to do. They may have jumped the gun."

"Can I see that, Hawkeye?" Olivier held a hand out for the book, and Riza wanted to clutch it to her chest but handed it over instead. Her heart skipped a beat when Olivier ripped the page from the binding.

"Don't ruin it, Olivier," Riza pleaded.

"Don't be stupid," Olivier quipped. She yanked a certificate from its frame on her desk and slid Roy's picture into its place gently. She took a marker from a drawer and wrote something on the glass. She held the frame out to Riza who took it back eagerly, but gingerly. "I would never ruin this for you," she said as she turned back to her work.

"Idiot Mustang" was written in thick black letters at the top of the frame. Riza smiled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Thank you, General," Riza bowed.

"Be sure to hang that up in your office as a reminder that even idiots can make history."

"Of course, sir," Riza said, turning on her heel for the doorway. She strode back to her office feeling lighter than she had before. The cold air bit at her face and snapped against her like a whip but she ignored it. She ignored the wind, she ignored salutes from her soldiers, and she was quick to plaster the frame up on the wall behind her desk and to her right.

When she sat back down into her seat she pressed the button on her receiver and said, "Dial Ed for me please."

"Yes, sir," someone obliged.

The phone rang for a moment before Ed answered with, "Major General?"

"Thank you, Edward," Riza leaned forward over the speaker and caught her face in her hands. She swallowed the lump in her throat but failed to muffle her sobs with her palms.

"Don't cry, Riza," Ed's voice was warm, and soft. "Winry will let me have it if she finds out I've made you cry."

"Thank you so much."


End file.
